.

.

.

Mortified 255: Party at the Ghost Embassy

.

There was to be a party at the ghost embassy. This was, of course, front page news. The ghost embassy had been front page news since before it was established, the ghost army before that, and Amity Park before that, so it wasn't really a surprise.

Ghosts as a whole were front page news, and that wasn't going to change in the near future. They weren't boring yet. They were full of incredible mysteries the depth of with had not been plumbed.

Also, they were dead people. And humans had long been fascinated with death and what comes after. Each new piece of information sparked the downfall of a religion and the rise of two more. Ghost hunters and occultists of all stripes and levels of authenticity had gained new notoriety and were, for the most part, basking in it, reveling in being at least partially correct.

Beyond the official embassy, many places with a reputation for being haunted were being visited by unofficial ambassadors and official dignitaries alike.

But, back to the party.

Sam had been to many parties in her life, mostly at the behest of her parents. She'd also been to a variety of ghost parties. While there was certainly some overlap between them, she wasn't sure how her mother's planning and Sojourn's planning would mesh when confronted with human politicians.

Her worry for the party had, however, been entirely overtaken by her worry for Dmitri. She barely knew him, but she knew Danny, Ellie, and Damien. And Dan, too, she supposed. Dmitri getting hurt… even if she didn't care about him, the pain it would do to them… And she did care about him, because she could already see the similarities and differences between him and his siblings, could see past the shyness to a person who would be just as heroic as Danny, albeit in a somewhat different way.

But, given that he was heroic, it was also given that he'd bite off more than he could chew and get in trouble. But then, up until now, she'd also had the impression Dmitri was more cautious than Danny. Which. Might not be true, since he had left to track down Freakshow. But still. She could hope.

Worry. Worry was the reason she wasn't at her best right now, and the reason she wasn't circulating at the moment, but instead hiding behind the only ghost none of the guests had quite gotten the nerve to speak to yet.

And it wasn't the surprisingly charismatic and non-aggressive sewer monster.

As Sam observed the room, partially shielded by the very nervous but still intimidating Dr. Iceclaw, she saw Wes extract himself from a crowd of middle-aged ladies and make his way towards her.

"Manson," he said, by way of greeting. There was a wild, hunted look in his eyes.

"Weston," she said.

He glanced back over his shoulder. "You have to help me."

"With what?"

"They keep asking me how I understand Inky." He gestured to the cat draped smugly around his shoulders. "The thing is, I don't know how I understand her, either. It just-" he gestured in frustration, "-happened. And we were negotiating with your boyfriend at the time so I-"

"Okay," said Sam. "I'm going to stop you there. Firstly, no matter how many times you and Tucker say it, Danny and I are not currently dating, nor have we ever dated in the past. All the people I know of who can see the future are silent on the subject."

"I hate everything about that last sentence."

"Noted, but I don't really care. Secondly, we're not talking about Danny's position in the prince's court while all these other people are here."

Wes made a face. "Okay, yeah, but if the explanation is related to the other thing we're not talking about..." he cut an imaginary object in half. "What am I supposed to say?"

"Weston," said Sam. "The explanation is very simple. You're her human. Therefore, you're the only human so blessed as to understand her words. Also, why didn't you ask her? She's right there."

"Because she likes to watch me suffer."

"Well, go back and suffer over there," she said, nodding at the ladies, "before the spies start paying attention."

Wes scowled, but left.

Some of the guests were eying Dr. Iceclaw now, though. Sam would have to go out and talk to people. She closed her eyes to steel herself for interactions. How was Jazz doing this? It was her little brother missing.

(Sam considered, briefly, if some of her reaction to this was leftover from when Danny had been kidnapped. It was possible. But it didn't change things.)

She opened her eyes. Time to go.

.

.

.

"Dr… Majnen?"

Iceclaw cringed. "Ah, in my culture, names do not work quite like yours. Please call me Dr. Iceclaw."

"My apologies," said the man. "Dr. Iceclaw. I hope you don't mind if I ask what the difference is?"

"Not at all," said Dr. Iceclaw, wishing he was anywhere but here. He was a doctor, not a politician, not an ambassador, not a warrior. And yet…

The Great One was rather deleterious to his health and sanity, it seemed. As were all these humans.

"Iceclaw is a direct translation of Maznenx. Although our native tongue is Tsumna, we know it isn't an easy one, or well known outside of our own environs. We make an effort to introduce ourselves first in whatever common language the people we are conversing with is most comfortable with. In this case, English. Our closest equivalent to your family names is the clan name, and those are only used in solemn ceremony. But I fear I haven't caught your name."

"I must apologize again in that case. I'm Dr. Ezekiel Jones. Although I haven't practiced since I went into politics."

Iceclaw couldn't relate. Who would give up medicine for this?

"I see," he said. "Always a pleasure."

"I must admit I came over to pick your brains on the subject," said Jones, smiling rather ruefully – at least, Iceclaw thought it was rueful. He was not the best at reading human facial expressions. "See how your practice differs from ours. But… you have sparked my curiosity. You mentioned your culture… I assume you aren't speaking of the whole Ghost Zone?"

"Goodness, no," said Iceclaw. "I would hate to give that impression. No. I am from the Tribe of Far Frozen. We are a relatively small nation of Deathless, born ghosts. Our chief, Lord Frostbite, is one of Prince Phantom's regents."

"He has more than one regent?"

"Of course. If he had only one, that would be in many ways the same as choosing that person to be King, wouldn't it? But, then, you are all republicans—"

"I'm a Democrat."

"Is… your nation not a republic?" This was why Iceclaw should not be held responsible for anything to do with politics.

"Oh. Well. Yes. Our political parties are the Democrats and the Republicans. I'm a Democrat."

Sojourn had mentioned something like that, hadn't he? Iceclaw hadn't thought it so important. But, now that he thought about it, he had a certain concern. "Are there really only two?"

"Essentially, yes."

How dangerous. Iceclaw didn't say that aloud, of course. He had some sense.

"But," said Jones, "what were you saying before?"

"You're republicans," said Iceclaw, "so you wouldn't be terribly familiar with how monarchies work. Particularly not our kind of monarchy."

Dr. Jones laughed. "Well, that's certainly true. How were the regents chosen? Importance of the, ah, Realm they come from? Is that the right term?"

Iceclaw was now having doubts about Jones's claim regarding his reason for coming over. "Yes, but the regents are chosen according to the roles they play, for the most part. It is somewhat difficult to explain the exact process…"

"Of course, of course, take your time."

But Icelclaw didn't want to.

.

.

.

"Mr. President, Mrs. Klein, I'm so glad you were able to make it tonight," said Jazz, as if there had been any doubt he would come. The first lady was a small surprise.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world, your highness," he replied with a political kind of warmth. His smile flickered slightly when he looked at her waist. "You carry those everywhere, don't you?"

"One can never be too prepared. We're well aware of the protests taking place. Besides, my brother would be disappointed if I didn't."

"Were they gifts, then?"

"Not exactly. Loans would be a better description. Sojourn and I were wondering if you would mind doing a little business tonight – We just received word from the prince regarding some of your requests earlier." How much earlier, she didn't say.

"Please," said the president, "lead the way. I suppose he's waiting for us?"

"Entertaining UN members that showed up earlier," said Jazz. "Our focus may be on you right now, but we do hope to have good relationships with other countries as well."

.

.

.

"Man, I never saw half of this stuff at the Nasty Burger," said Irving. "This is so cool."

"You did say that before," said the Chef.

"I know, but it, like, bears repeating."

"If it helps, you're doing quite well as a sous chef."

"Oh, yeah, this is way easier than working at the big NB. No one's yelling at me, the only thing explosive is the gas, I'm mostly fireproof… I mean, I guess I'm sort of explosive, when I want to be. And I'm also mace. But that's different."

"Yes… as useful as that is in combat, it isn't something we want to inflict- serve to our guests."

.

.

.

He held the still-full champagne flute in a grasp that belied his inner turmoil. Each time a ghost crossed his field of view, he tracked it with his eyes until the movement of another near him drew his attention.

Once upon a time, he had been a member of the GIW's board of directors.

Not a terribly active one, of course, and his interest had been more focused on the technological and profitable aspect of things. He was usually something of a silent partner, his contributions routed through a number of fronts, lest he be associated with ghost hunters. He had done his best to distance himself from the fanatical hatred espoused by those like Miss Green, but he had attended the meeting where they had decided to kick off the ill-fated Operation Katabasis. He'd raised concerns about the children's safety… of course he'd expressed separate concerns about maintaining the profitability of the GIW…

Not that it mattered, now. All for nothing.

Or, not quite nothing.

No one knew he was Mr. Brown, after all. But he did know who Miss Green was. He knew where she was and what resources she had access to. He didn't know what she was planning, but he didn't need to. Her personality was enough. He could leverage that. Assuming revealing that he knew anything wouldn't amount to throwing himself under the bus.

He'd been privy to enough of the GIW's research to know the image of ghosts as violent and aggressive creatures wasn't all prejudice or propaganda. Far from it. Not to mention their powers. Perfect assassins, all of them, if they could get past their natural impulse for chaos and noise.

This party was a veneer. A sturdy, attractive one he had to admit, and he'd rely on it to keep them from attacking him and the other guests here, but he didn't trust it to stay up.

Would the leverage – and possible protection should his role in the GIW come out – be worth exposing himself to such risk?

.

.

.

Dmitri set himself down on the roof of the car transporting Freakshow and braced himself against the wind. This was going to be a long night.